


Before the Greater Good

by SupremeLeaderRen13



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 07:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupremeLeaderRen13/pseuds/SupremeLeaderRen13
Summary: After the death of his mother, Albus Dumbledore meets an interesting boy.





	1. Albus

Albus  
It’s cold the day after my mother’s funeral. Frost coats the windowpanes of our house which was once a home, the chill drifting in around the cracks where Mother’s hospitality charms have long worn off. I think that’s one of the worst parts, the absence of her magic. My mother was not a woman to be trifled with, and a great witch in her own right. To see her spells shattered so easily, blown away in the dust is…frightening.   
Not as frightening as being back here.  
A hand on my shoulder makes me jerk away reflexively, far too deep in my own thoughts. That’s a bad habit. I turn around to find my beautiful, timid sister blinking up at me.  
Timid and weak and the reason that I’m here. I feel shocked at myself and work hard to press that thought back to the recesses of my mind, where it belongs. This is not her fault, I repeat firmly. Maybe one day I’ll believe it.  
“A-Albus?” Her voice is musical, soft, but it trails away too often. She gets lost somewhere between self and fear. “Are you okay?”  
I can’t let her see that I’m upset, let alone upset her. The feeling of ill use comes over me again, that I am now enslaved to this woman child behind me. Because of—  
“Albus?”  
I force a smile to my lips. I love Ariana, I do. “I’m okay. It’s just…” Now I sound like her, dropping my sentences into oblivion. But for all her shortcomings, Ari is intuitive. She chews on a lock of her flaxen hair, pale eyes fixed on me.  
“Quiet.” And I know she feels it too, the overwhelming loss of our mother, the magic that traced itself around her. Magic sings to me in a way I can’t quite describe, each person’s a unique melody. Traces, I think to myself. My mother’s proud, mournful song is gone.  
Her eyes fill with tears alarmingly fast, but don’t spill over. She stares at me more directly than she has since I first came home.  
“You…hate me.” She jabs a finger accusingly in my direction. “My fault.” The air around her grows murky, like smoke descending, and her shoulders start to quiver. Fear ignites in my gut, and I feel for the presence of my wand in my pocket.  
“Ariana,” I say pleadingly. “I don’t think that. I—“  
The door bangs open, frightening us both. My younger brother, Aberforth, strides in, freezing as he takes in the scene between the two of us. Ariana’s head snaps down, all vestiges of her rage gone as quickly as it came. She makes a timid motion toward Aberforth, who sneers at me like I am the scum of the Earth. We look so similar it’s rather like being judged by my own reflection. He holds his arms out to our sister.  
“Ari girl!” She leaps to him, and he swings her in his arms, the two of them making a wild circle while she giggles madly. And I’m relieved, but I’m also furious. Angry because I never did have the patience to form such a bond with Ariana. Aberforth always was better at calming her down, knowing just when to treat her like a regular person—I wince, knowing how my father would hate that term—and when to back off. Because our sister is a time bomb.   
Abe settles Ariana back on the ground and gently bops her on the head. Like their casual embrace, something I would never try. She merely giggles and swats back at him, once again nothing but a child. Harmless.   
“Why don’t you go put some tea on? I’m frozen. Maybe we can work on your collage. Picked up a copy of The Prophet on my way home.” She brightens and gives a sweet smile, turning smartly into the kitchen. Aberforth keeps his face in a mask of pleasantness until she’s out of earshot. When he rounds on me, I flinch before he even speaks.  
“What the hell is wrong with you,” he snarls, using language he would never have dared to if Mother were still here. “You can’t go upsetting her like that.”  
I try to be the patient eldest brother I’m meant to be, take a breath. “While I appreciate your concern for my life—“  
“It’s not your life I’m concerned about.” I draw back, wounded. Aberforth and I were never close, but I thought we liked each other well enough. And we did, until this happened. Now I rub my hand over my face like he’s hit me with a stinging jinx, trying to hide the hurt smarting there.   
“I never intentionally try to set her off, she’s just fragile right now.”  
“She’s always been fragile. Or did you forget that, spending all your summers at Hogwarts and hiding up in your room at Christmas.” His fists are clenched, a growing sign of danger. Abe never could hold his temper. Which makes the fight we’re having even more ridiculous.   
“That’s not fair. I was doing projects, working on things—“  
“On your legacy, you mean.” There it is. Underneath all the resentment, a little jealousy. Abe isn’t stupid, he just never cared for school. He’s already tried twice to get me to allow him to withdraw. My mother would roll over in her grave, which is the only reason I haven’t bowed to his increasingly aggressive demands.  
“Aberforth, if I made you feel like I didn’t care, I’m sorry.” And I am, a little. But mostly, I really didn’t care. I just wanted to get away from here. I would think Abe would enjoy that, knowing how trapped I am here now. Instead, he rolls his eyes and moves away from me, contempt dripping from his lanky, fifteen year old frame.  
“You didn’t make us feel that way, Albus. You showed us exactly how you felt.”  
A few weeks after Aberforth returned (most unwillingly) to Hogwarts, my life has started to fall into a dismal routine. Make sure Ariana is fed and entertained. Crunch the numbers on the increasingly depleted bank account—we are bleeding Galleons. Work halfheartedly on some research correspondence. I flip through my notes on dragon’s blood, noting my excited, cramped handwriting. I had been so energized then, when doing that project. Twelve—twelve!—uses of dragon’s blood. It was a paramount discovery. And now that people want to talk about it, I’m stuck here. I toss my quill down on the desk, giving it up for another day.   
I’ve got nothing but time.  
Ariana has mostly given me a wide berth, although she does occasionally show up with a cup of tea and a wizard’s chess set. She’s terribly intuitive, Ari. More than once I’ve entertained the thought that if what happened hadn’t happened, she would have been an excellent Legilimens. It’s not fair. Still, if I dwell too long on those thoughts, she disappears like she can hear them. So I try not to.  
My mother’s pygmy owl flies back and forth about three times during the week, dumping letter after letter from Aberforth. He asks after Ariana in every one, and I can feel his unbelief in my ability to take care of our sister, his most precious friend. My inquiries into his studies go unanswered, although Professor Dippet has told me he’s doing “adequately.” I’ll take what I can get. Father always encouraged us to “pick our battles.” And then he chose the wrong one.  
Occasionally, a handsome, exotic bird will present itself on my windowsill. These I dread even more than missives from Abe. My schoolfriends are on the traditional tour of the world, seeing incredible things. Today’s letter is from my friend Elphius, and I tear it open irritably and barely skim it before waving the giant, falcon-like bird off without a reply. It looks highly offended, but I’m getting used to inspiring that in people.  
The sneakoscope on my desk begins to whirl just before my intruder charms go off. I sigh heavily before heading into the den, where Ariana is reading a book. She looks placid enough, barely giving me a passing wave. Godric’s Hollow is an all-wizarding village, but very few people come around since my father was arrested. Not that they didn’t all show up the funeral, as Abe pointed out, hoping to get a glimpse of my reclusive mother. Her body, I mean.  
I didn’t allow it.  
I flick my wand, silencing the alarms and the sneakoscope. Nonverbal charms have been a great asset in this house, since magic makes Ari nervous. Better to keep it quiet.  
“No, dear, take your time, I have all day.” In spite of myself, I smile when I hear that voice and throw the door open wide.   
Bathilda Bagshot is one of the only witches in Godric’s that never stopped being friends with my family. Over the years, we all came to think of her as an auntie of sorts, her sharp tongue notwithstanding. When I was younger it offended me, but as I grew older I came to understand her sharp wit was all to see if we had any. Which we did.  
Better yet, she’s good with Ariana. And she knows.  
“Sorry, Bathilda.” I step back to allow her in, and she bustles past as if she owns the place, hanging her hat on the hook by the door, edges of her cloak snapping. Her eyes survey my disaster of a desk.  
“Keep it up, Albus, and you’ll have this place looking like mine.” She cackles, shifting through the papers as her long, black braid swings between her shoulders. Her house is buried in a myriad of papers. She’s a historian, always working on her next dissection of the past. “How are you coming on the Dragon’s Blood thesis?”  
“Um…” I spread my arms in defeat. Bathilda fixes me with a look that’s far too knowing for my taste.   
“Domestic tedium getting to be a bit much for you, boy?” Her sparse brow arches as she looks me up and down. She presses her lips together, making them pale. “Listen, Albus..”  
“Auntie Bathilda?” Ari peers around the corner shyly, hiding herself behind her long waves of hair. Her book dangles in her fingers, probably in case she is dismissed. That hurts my heart a little and I’m thankful when Bathilda smiles at her.  
“Ari! What are you doing hiding from me? Come sit with Albus and I. I’ve got some news for him.” She winks conspiratorially at Ari. “Maybe he’ll be a little less mopey, eh?”  
She giggles behind her hands and I shift uncomfortably. I hadn’t meant to let it show that much.   
Ten minutes later, the three of us are seated around the kitchen table, steaming mugs of tea situated in front of us. I’m relieved when she uses a strainer. Neither of us care much for divination, particularly the waste of tea leaf reading. In fact, the more I study the less I find I even believe in true Seers.  
“What’s the big news, Bathilda?” I drop a cube of sugar into my cup, not really getting my hopes up. Unless she tells me that she’s found someone else to manage the household while I go back to my life, I’m not sure what could cheer me up.  
Bathilda smiles and the crow’s feet around her eyes deepen. Ari has the dreamy look that tells me her mind is millions of miles from this once-warm kitchen.  
“My great nephew is coming to visit me. Gellert. And he’s just your age, Albus. He’ll be staying for the summer, and I thought you two would get along well. He’s very bright, you see.” That part, the boy’s being bright, I don’t doubt for a second. Hard to be anything else when you share blood with Bathilda Bagshot.   
“Has he just finished school too?”  
Bathilda twirls her finger, slowly making her spoon rotate in her teacup.   
“He was at Durmstrang, yes.” I get the feeling that she’s not telling me something, but my ears perk up at the sound of Durmstrang. Another wizarding school, one with serious rumors hanging over its head. Dark Arts style rumors. But also, whispers that they encouraged their students to experiment, to be free thinkers. We could use some of that in Godric’s Hollow.  
Come to think, we could use some of that in England proper.  
“That’s wonderful.” I lean forward, allowing myself to feel a little excitement. “When does he get here?”  
“In two days’ time.” Bathilda shrugs, and I sense that avoidance again. “He’s got some things to straighten out at home first.”  
My foot bounces under my robes, which I’ve only taken to wearing lately out of laziness. To be true, I like the newer muggle styles, in bright colors and rich fabrics. Things I can’t afford anymore. No matter—two days, and I might have someone to talk to!   
“Well, I must be off, my dears. Lot’s to prepare.” She deftly places a kiss on Ari’s cheek and squeezes my hand. “I think this will be good for you, Albus.”  
There’s a sharp punch of longing in my chest when I respond, “I hope so.”  
“Mmhmm.” Bathilda points her wand at our teapot, lifting the strainer and pouring the tea leaves into the trashcan. “Now don’t look too closely, boy. You’ll see that all of our futures are full of…soggy tea leaves.” She snorts.  
I force out a weak chuckle. “Good old Divination.”  
“Watch it, Albus. Nothing is good and old until you’re my age.” Bathilda winks. “Try not to look into the void until then!”


	2. Gellert

Gellert  
My scrying glass is dusty. I hate that. I blow the dirt off the smooth surface with more force than necessary, studying my own reflection. Long, blonde hair. Big, expressive eyes. Normally I think pretty highly of myself, but tonight I look…odd. I can see how angry I am in the hollows of my eye sockets, feel the rage spilling out of the hazel. Not that it matters anymore. Who would see me?  
No one at school, now that Durmstrang has expelled me. Rich of the headmaster to accuse me of diabolical intentions. ‘Strang positively drips with the dark arts. My teachers find it important to educate us in all facets of magic. The more morally inclined ones always repeat that it is a necessity. How can one fight what they do not know?  
My thought--why fight it when you know how to use it?  
I guess I did go a little overboard. But my experiments excite me, creating inspires me. I was never content to go through the standard book of spells series and file them away neatly. Magic isn’t a language, it’s a gift. A birthright. And when it came so naturally to me, I answered. Now I can almost feel my way into what I want. But my truest talent is this.  
The scry glass leaches the warmth from my hands for the first few minutes, and all I can see is my own reflection. But slowly, slowly, the coolness overtakes my open palms and the glass fades to a hazy black. And, just like with practical magic, I need only ask.  
“Show me,” I whisper.  
The mirror shudders, then yields to me, giving me what I want. I wave away the image of the misshapen body (I know why I’ve been expelled, thanks), and pass on to the more interesting images. I want to know if something will come of my imminent exile. There’s an odd shape—triangular, with a strange symbol inside it—that I jot down absently, but the most interesting vision comes next. I see a pair of blue eyes, and feel a rush of something that I can’t quite define. Most interestingly, a voice says my name.  
Not in the sharp way my father does. Not like my teachers, horrified and disappointed. Not even in the annoying, pleading way that the boy from my last experiments did—Gellert, please!  
No, this is different, husky and warm. I find myself glowing at the sound of it.  
“Gellert.”  
My hand moves of its own accord on the paper which I scribbled the symbol onto. Whatever this message is, it can wait. I look desperately into my scry glass, hoping for more information. Instead, I see blue flames that are quickly swallowed up by a phoenix. Everything fades to black and ash.  
“Damn.” I’m angry, but I still make sure to gently sit the glass down on the velvet case I keep it in. Of all the things my mother left me, this is my favorite. She was skilled at Seeing herself, but I doubt she could do it like me.  
No one can do it like I do.  
I sigh and turn the paper over in my hands, bring it closer to the lamp on my bedside table. Passing over the odd symbol that I saw, I move on the other thing my hand sketched. It’s a name, and an odd one at that. I smirk, thinking of how alike we both are already. Gellert Grindelwald and…  
I say out aloud, trying to inflect the same tone in which the vision said mine:  
“Albus Dumbledore.”  
“Your portkey leaves in ten minutes.” My father has his back to me, staring out the large windows of our home. He’s blonde like me, but his eyes are a deep brown. Someone else might say rich, but there’s no warmth to them at all. Just pools of disappointment.   
When I don’t respond, he sighs heavily. “I want to believe that you didn’t mean to hurt that boy, Gellert. I really do.” A very tiny shard of guilt pierces my heart. But then my father continues. “But I’m not stupid. You’re selfish and I’m sure it didn’t cripple you at all when you were doing those things to him.”  
He’s right and wrong. It didn’t hurt at the time. But afterwards there was something…missing. Not even at Durmstrang do they tell you that the Dark Arts take as much as they give.  
“Father, I—“ I stop awkwardly as the damned house elf shuffles slowly between us. There’s a protracted pause as we wait for him to clear out of the parlor.   
“Does it really matter, Gellert?” The room is tense now, and Father’s knuckles are whitening as he twists his watch chain around his wrist. “Your mother would be mortified if she knew you now.”  
“Please don’t talk about Mother!” My voice ticks upward at the end, and I’m embarrassed. This is all wrong. It isn’t how I wanted to leave. I take a deep breath and try again. “I know it’s hard to be around me.” Father’s eyes bounce to my reflection and away again. “Since I look so much like her,” I add.   
My father squares his shoulders. “You don’t look like her. You look like what you are—an abomination.”  
It’s instinctive, my reaction. Sometimes, the magic doesn’t even have to be asked. I raise my wand, point, and—  
There’s a loud snapping noise as the window in front of my father cracks from the force of my curse, fatal lines spiderwebbing along the glass. Father had raised his hand at the last second and deflected my spell, a great wizard in his own right. I can see my reflection in the ruined window. I look as shocked as I feel.  
Father meets my reflection’s eyes—my mother’s eyes—for the first time in ages, and I can feel his disgust as he focuses on the milky one. The result of my experiments. Unnatural.   
“Leave this place, Gellert.” His accent is thicker, more pronounced when he’s angry. “I’ll send you money, whatever you need. Just get out of my sight.”  
For the very first time in my life, I listen to my father. “Accio portkey.” There’s a flash of bright light as I’m jerked forward, and then my old life is just like my mother.  
Gone.


End file.
